


In a state of imaginary grace

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's not sure what he meant when he said to Cas in Purgatory, we're going home, except he guesses he meant, in part, this. Coda for 8.07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a state of imaginary grace

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Modern English.

The sink in the motel room's bathroom is dripping, a muted dull _plunk_ in the wake of the sound of Castiel's wingbeats that brought them back there. Castiel's fingers draw away from Dean's forehead and Dean takes a few deep breaths to shake off the lurch of his stomach and the momentary vertigo that angel air always gives him. He's not sure how much he minds that. Maybe Dean's getting used to it, or it's that there is something exhilarating about it, even if it's over in a few seconds, a blink and they're wherever they're going, the world shifting and blurring then snapping back at a different place. 

It was Sam's idea to take charge of the Trans; he looked at Dean and said, you look like you need some downtime, I got this. Sam's taken the Impala, escorting Kevin and his mom in their car to Garth, who Dean isn't sure offers a better guarantee of safety than he and Sam and Cas, but Garth isn't on Crowley's radar, he's not on the radar of any of that crap, which is an advantage. Dean hopes it stays that way, not just for the Trans, but for Garth's sake. Maybe they're just dragging one more into this vortex that shouldn't have to be there. Hurts to think it--maybe Sam's right to get out. Dean remembers a time when he would've given anything to get Sam out, for Sam not to have to know the shit he knows, but once you know, you know, there's no going back, there's no home to go to. 

So Dean's not sure what he meant when he said to Cas in Purgatory, we're going home, except he guesses he meant, in part, _this_. 

The faucet keeps dripping. Cas stands near the dresser, watching Dean, who suddenly doesn't know what he's supposed to be doing, whether he wants to sleep, get some cheeseburgers, watch TV, get drunk. The tactile memory of Castiel's fingers, clenched tight around Dean's lower arm, the wind of the portal, Cas _pushing_ and telling him to go, claws its way out from where Dean tried to put it away. But there's Cas, his trenchcoat clean, his face shaven--Dean kind of misses the peach fuzz--right in front of him. 

Dean's skin burns where Cas grasped him in Purgatory. He rubs at it with his fingers, trying to shake the memory off. Thinks of Cas in that barn, all those years ago, staring at Dean in an uncomfortably inside-out way that made him feel like every layer he put in place was pulled back or gone transparent whether it was okay with him or not. Thinks he should've gotten it in Purgatory, he should've known, after the stuff Cas did and what he went through, that he might feel that way about staying behind. If Dean had realized sooner, he maybe could've found a way to get through to him. Maybe he could've--

The exhaustion hits Dean, a latch snapping open that wasn't going to hold up for long anyway against the things pounding at the door. Everything that's happened recently, and before, without the 24/7 surround sound steel cage match of Purgatory to hide behind, and he is _done_. He doesn't really remember moving, but somehow his hands are braced against the dresser behind him, and he's wondering if his godamned knees are actually going to give out, when Cas's hand is on his back, and then his long fingers curling around Dean's bicep. The grip is hesitant, but strong, capable alone of holding Dean up, but Cas steps closer, offering the full length of his body, and Dean accepts. He lets go of the dresser, grabbing a fistful of that trenchcoat instead.

He feels Castiel's arms go around him, again a little hesitant, as if Cas really isn't sure how this works but he's determined. They always make it up as they go anyway. Dean reaches around him to hold him back tightly, head tucked down so his forehead's somewhere against against a lapel, the circle of a button, Dean's fingers splayed now against Castiel's back. Like everything else, when Cas sets his mind to doing something, oh boy, he doesn't mess around--he holds Dean tight enough it's almost hard to breathe. Castiel's breath is warm, brushing along Dean's cheek, tickling down his neck. They stay like that, neither moving, Cas's heartbeat a pulse against Dean's chest even through all the layers between them.

Dean raises his head, moves his hands around and up to cup Castiel's face, and traces his thumb over the soft recently shaved stubble of Cas's jawline. Under his touch, Cas goes still, eyes widening slightly. For a moment Dean wonders if he'll pull away, but Cas pushes against him instead until the back of Dean's legs hit the dresser. Dean dips his head and fits his mouth over Castiel's, gives himself over to the want, the exhilarating lurch as his insides flip over, Castiel kissing him back, his fingers digging in between Dean's shoulder blades. Their tongues slide together, bodies meeting at every possible point. Cas kisses Dean hard, pulling Dean in even closer, no more hesitation. He makes a small noise from deep in his throat, a gasp or a stifled sob, it's hard to tell which. It's more than Dean knows what to do with, along with the way Cas is holding onto him, the way he's holding onto Cas. 

The sound of the dripping faucet cuts through the rushing of Dean's blood, and he discovers he's shoved up the sleeve of Cas's coat and white shirt. He has his fingers wrapped around Cas's lower arm, tightly enough to redden the skin. 

Stopping the kiss, Dean leans his forehead against Castiel's for a moment before he draws away.

"Don't--" Dean begins. His fingers are still wrapped around Castiel's arm.

Cas's hand moves up to Dean's shoulder, palm fitting over the place where his scar once rested, and the warmth of the touch goes down through the layers of his shirts and his jacket. There's regret, maybe an apology, in the sadness of Castiel's gaze, but Dean doesn't want it. He makes himself open his fingers, releasing Castiel's arm, then watches the marks fade from Cas's skin. Whatever it is he was going to tell Cas not to do is lost. 

Castiel keeps his palm firmly on Dean's shoulder. 

Dean chooses to read it as a promise.


End file.
